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Why Filipino Girls Scare(d) Me…

When I was a boy, Filipino girls scared me. They were so dark and sensual and had boner-inducing, exotic names like Cherry, Chastity, Asiannique, Babylynn, and Beaver(ly). I found myself strangely attracted to them, but the sheer heat of their allure made them impossible to even approach. Just to touch one would have been a fantasy realized, like riding bareback atop a pegasus in flight. But instead, I found myself admiring them from afar, hiding behind the safety of my geeky asian boy brothers and a few asian girl friends who looked like boys. It was a silent suffering worthy of a love poem.

Flashforward to high school. I was truly a sight to behold. At 5’2″ tall, 98 pounds, and nearsighted, I was a first round draft pick for Team Geek-Asia. As the team leader, I decided to spend my first summer at Cal Tech to knock out a few AP science courses so that I could graduate high school with at least an M.D. I was giddy with excitement. It would be my first time away from home and my first time living in a dorm. The mere thought of being able to study science late into the night without my mom forcing me to go to sleep would give me goosebumps (and a half chubby). It would be a most excellent summer of intellectual growth and academic rigor. At least that was the plan until two hot Filipino girls living across the courtyard decided to give me a daily/nightly lesson in southeast asian anatomy…

Why Cherry and Chastity spent their dorm room leisure hours walking around either naked or only in their bras and panties was beyond me. The window allowing visual access into their girl zoo was about 25 feet across and 8 feet high. They didn’t even bother to cover it with a curtain let alone a few, well-placed plants. There was no bush(es). Their days would involve any variety of walking around sort of naked, half-naked, or just plain naked. They’d study, blow up a beach ball and play catch, and do all sorts of innocent, girly things like brush each other’s hair, rub lotion on one another, or fiddle with an abacus.

In retrospect, I’m pretty darn sure they wanted me to admire their fine bodices from afar. Perhaps they knew their seductions wouldn’t result to much because I looked like a prepubescent boy (not true. i had some sprout). Or perhaps they were practicing their “we’re hot and we know everyone is looking at us but we’re acting like we are not aware that everyone is looking at us” technique. Whatever their motivations the result was all the same for me – little blueberry balls. So cruel these fine Filipino girls were.

Morning time was always fun. Cherry and Chastity would get up, prance around in their undies, strip buck naked, put on running gear, and jog…to breakfast. They would then quickly return, strip naked (again), hang out for a while, take a shower, and then get ready for their day. They would even apply their makeup prior to clothing themselves. The evening hours were the best worst. They’d study naked or, if they were cold, wear a silk robe (open and untied, of course). I was in a hypnotic trance of boy-horny 24/7. Remember, I was only 14 and the closest thing to this kind of skin action came from the pages of Penthouse, Oui, or National Geographic. My biggest awe came from the fact that these two ladies had no tan lines. I couldn’t even tell where their skin ended and their areola began. They were a monochromatic expression of the tan erotic.

pag-ibig mo

I tried to attend class. I really did. But making it to AP Bio was very difficult if not impossible due to the horn of Hercules impeding my ability to walk, think, or even breathe. It’s no surprise that I got a D+ in all my courses. So much for my MD by 18. Every now and then I’d catch them giving me a seductive wink from afar. At least that’s what I thought. I couldn’t be absolutely certain because I would always faint from cranial blood loss and hence, lose time. I was speechless for weeks. My summer was just a blur of hormonal skitzofrenia, attempts at studying the sciences, and applying cooling ointment on my little blueberry balls. These Filipino girls were forcing the inner man in me to burst from the shell of my boy cocoon. It was time to fly (or at least try). But how? Filipino girls scared me (especially these two).

On the final weekend of Cal Tech summer school I had my shot – Disneyland. The entire student body went to Disneyland to celebrate a summer of hard work (I, celebrating the scientifically impossible feat of a continuous, two month erection). In the olden days, Disneyland used to have an outdoor dance club called Videopolis. Even when compared to today’s standards of dance clubs and K-Town sin centers, Videopolis was nothing short of thumping. My strategy was simple (though rather idiotic when I look back) – during a song I knew how to dance to, I’d waltz up to Cherry and/or Chastity and dance hard. Really, really hard. I wanted to prove through groove that I was a worthy date (and mate). So there I was, all 5’2″ of me, wearing a large, white Ton Sur Ton shirt (I barely fit into a small so I looked like an anorexic boy going out for the night), a biker’s cap with brim 45 degrees off facial centerline, black surf shorts, and my new, jet white, Reebok aerobic high tops. I was ready to make first contact.

My window arrived. Depeche Mode’s Strangelove came on. It was time. And though there were thousands rocking out at Videopolis, spotting the Filipinos was not difficult…they were the ones who could actually dance. Lights were flashing, the bass thumping, and the voice of Dave Gahan surged courage through my veins, injecting me with a steel that no Asian boy at 14 had the right to wield. Upon approach, I saw them – Cherry & Chastity, my summer anatomy teachers. Unfortunately for me, Chastity was already dancing with some bad ass Filipino dude named Jesus. Jesus had a buzz cut, a mustache, and big muscles because he used a Bowflex twice a day. I probably weighed as much as his right deltoid. Compared to Jesus, I looked like a yellow smurf. So Chastity was now out of the equation. Which wasn’t a bad thing really because Chastity had rather large boobs, which I found scary. Cherry, on the other hand, had a more conservative mammary setup which I found less intimidating and more befitting a beginner. And damn, could that girl ever dance. She popped and gyrated like a sensual rocket. It was like she was having sex with the invisible man standing up. My little blueberry balls plumped a bit. Moving on. I knifed my way through the dancers and walked right up to Cherry. My approach was confident and with purpose. Until, or course, Cherry looked right at me. Her South East Asian eyes, with their delicate almond flair froze me in my tracks. Shit. I could not move. I could hear my heart beating. What to do, what to do? What was my original strategy? Fuck. Cherry was just waiting, expecting something. But what was this something? I was a nerdy asian guy with little blueberry balls with zero seduction experience. I didn’t have weak game. I had no game. Hell, I didn’t even know what game was. I was a boy with a rubber knife swimming in a sea of great white SE Asian sharks with halter tops and belly rings. I was screwed. I thought I was going to melt into my Reeboks. But then I was saved. Call it fight or flight instinct or divine intervention, I’ll never know. To the best of my recollection, the great Dave Gahan whispered into my ear and gave me the simplest of instructions that saved my ass, “Dance mother fucker, dance.” So dance I did. Really, really hard. Just know I did not possess the expert dancing skills that Jesus was born with. My dancing was a cheap modification of what I learned from aerobics class (hey, a brother’s gotta stay fit somehow). So there I was, looking up at Cherry who was looking down at me (she was 4 inches taller), “dancing” my blueberry balls off. I was releasing a summer of silent admiration all over my Filipino Cherry. Her reaction? She giggled, put her hands to her sides, kinked her head to the right, and smiled at me. Go figure. I had my Cherry in one song.

We danced a few more songs at Videopolis and then she took me by the hand we walked out into cool, night air of Tomorrowland. It was amazing. From behind we must have looked like a mother taking her skinny biker/aerobic son out for a stroll. Why she even took a liking to me is beyond reason or logic. She was hot and I was most certainly not. I was skinny, tiny, nerdy, zitty, and asian male. Perhaps I was experiencing an outlier moment. Something that shouldn’t happen happening. For whatever the reason, I grabbed her soft hand and enjoyed every “accidental” brush of her body against mine. I was in heaven with my Filipino Cherry. 1/2 of the girl party that seduced me through nude anatomy lessons for an entire summer was now my touch partner. No longer was I admiring this creature from afar. I was holding hands with her and she was holding me back. There was no question that she was in total control. She could have turned off this switch at any time. Which she ultimately did at the end of the summer when we each had to go back to our real lives. And though I did not get my MD by 18 and I pretty much flunked every single science class, the last few days of that summer provided me with an education of Filipino geography worthy of a PhD. God I love science.

Damn, Sung writes about being afraid of American women and gets slammed by offended women (or woman), you write about being scared of the Pilipina sistas and no outrage at all? You are charmed, my friend. The Pinays really do dig you. And to be with a girl named Cherry–that is the American Dream. That’s why our folks immigrated here, so one day you could date hot women named Cherry.

@Jenny, I think mic? (if that is his/her real name) was actually parodying an earlier incident on this blog that Philip alluded to in his comment on this post. It’s worth checking out if you have the time.